Sustaining Winter
by ms hearse
Summary: winter - a time or state of old age, decay, affliction, hostility, emotional coldness


_I want to thank darklyromantic for helping me improve my story, and MCR for inspiring it._

_Sustaining Winter_

She was alone. Her head was bent to her work, her hand scribbling madly at the notebook before her, and that insufferable hair, the wild beast, was unbound. She looked tired; her eyes wore a dark glimmer that he knew only too well, for it was the glimmer of late nights and early mornings, all in the name of stubbornness.

Hermione was the only member of the Order who put as much effort into her work as he did; but he was unavoidable, a dark flame amidst the light, and she was, inadvertent as it was, invisible. He himself had not bothered to ever notice her before, and he wondered, therefore, why she mattered to him at all.

He knew he had been lonely, especially lately, but his interest in Hermione frightened him: had it really been so bad that he would see potential in a former student? He raised his eyebrows in response to his own question; maybe this was what was meant by feeling your clock tick. He was older, much older now, and had never settled down, though he doubted he could do so, given his temper.

Hermione looked up from her scribbles to see him watching her, and smiled gently in response, awkwardly, as if she could think of no better reaction. He smiled back, despite himself.

The house was quickly cramped for space, for there was hardly room enough for anyone since the Order expanded with last year's graduating class. As the meeting began, he found a seat next to Hermione, who didn't show any outward signs of minding, or even noticing. He glanced at her notebook and read a few lines, but was distracted when she sighed and nervously pushed her hair, or as much as would stay, behind her ear. He could see then that she had in fact seen him there, watching her, and was uncomfortable with his choice in seating.

"I can move if I distract you," he said with a bite of sarcasm, though he meant for it to sound seductive.

"Oh, no, Professor, I'm just not fond of people reading over my shoulder," she said with a smile, a sickly smile that reminded him of sympathy, or insincerity. He immediately didn't like that smile, the way it belittled her and aged her.

"You don't have to call me Professor any longer, my dear," he said softly.

"Habit," she whispered back.

"Hmm."

"What?"

"Would you like me to still refer to you as Miss Granger?" he said.

"Actually, I'm not sure you've ever 'referred' to me since school, Prof…Snape."

"Hmm."

She laughed then, louder than necessary, and the room quieted as a result. The awkwardness made her laugh further, and he shifted uncomfortably, eyeing anyone who dared to look his way. He patted her leg until she calmed, and chose to ignore the strange glances they both received at the oddness of their being so personal.

He cleared his throat and whispered into her ear, "I am staying the night if you'd like to continue this conversation later."

She nodded, uncertain, and went back to her notebook.

He waited patiently as the members of the Order filed out of the Black House slowly, one by one, watching Hermione as she sat alone, speaking to no one as they left. Even when only the two of them remained, she continued to sit silent; being a patient man, he stayed silent as well, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence.

He realized, as he stared at her, that she had really let herself go since her school days. She was worn looking, unkept, as if beaten in life, used and reused, and he wondered what had ultimately been her demise. She was quite beautiful though, in her own way, and he found it enjoyable to be with her, even in silence; the revelation seemed to shake something vulgar in him, and he turned away.

He crossed his legs, expecting a long night, and stretched his palms out over his knee. She looked up at him then, brows furled; it seemed she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror just behind him. Her hair unflatteringly framing her face, which was wrinkled up from the frowning, and the dark circles under her eyes brought out a side of Hermione that he had never thought existed: a darker Hermione, an angry and volatile Hermione, and a Hermione he found, against his will, to be very appealing.

"Excuse me, Professor," she said as she stood and walked the stairs to the bedrooms above them.

He sighed lightly, disappointed at the abruptness at which she left. He listened to her pace the hallway until finding a suitable bedroom and shutting the door, the ceiling rumbling slightly as she prepared for bed.

He sat awhile until the loneliness crept back into his heart and forced him to follow her path up the stairs. There was only one closed door, and he stood beside it, touching the wood gently, until he gathered enough courage to open it and peer into the darkness. She was in bed, almost completely dressed, her eyes adjusting to the light of the intrusion, almost emotionless, bland, as if she half expected him to come in after her.

There was no exchange of words, only emotions. She somehow knew that he sought her company, that he didn't want to find another room; but he knew, as well, that she would eventually give in, even though she wasn't sure she was ready to share. With reluctance, he pulled down his guard and opened his face to his thoughts. She read in him his reluctance to leave, and so she sighed and nodded.

He closed the door, and in the darkness he found his way to the bed and curled up beside her, finally whole.

He woke to an empty bed and a headache. There was noise arising from the downstairs kitchen, chattering and laughing, and he knew the Order had returned for another round at debating how to best overthrow the Dark Lord. He laid motionless, recalling the night's events, the warmth of sharing a bed for the sake of sleep and company and warmth and nothing more, and he was curious as to why that alone could suffice him.

As he began to drift back into a state of sleep, he thought he heard a light hum of a breath, and as he stood to follow the sound, he saw Hermione standing before the bathroom mirror. She eyed herself critically, moving nothing but her chest to breathe, and there was a sternness about her that made him hesitant to intervene. He decided instead to join the others downstairs.

As he entered the kitchen where Mrs Weasley was preparing and passing out a meal of some sorts, he sensed Hermione move in beside him. There were looks then of curiosity, glances her way and his, the air stale with assumptions.

"Good morning Molly," she said, grabbing a plate and dishing herself something to eat.

"Oh, uh, good morning, dear," Mrs Weasly replied, snapping back to her duties. "Sleep well?"

"Yes," Hermione said, sitting down and motioning for him to join her. "I stayed the night here, actually; Snape kept me company."

"And you slept alright too, then, Snape?" asked Harry, whose eyes darted straight to him in speculation.

"In this old ditch of a house? Hardly," he said, sneering.

He didn't sit next to Hermione, but kept to an inconspicuous corner, somewhere he could watch and not pry. Hermione didn't mind, quickly busying herself with breakfast. Harry, however, was not as content.

"You kept her company, then, huh?" Harry spoke just above a whisper.

"Jealous?"

"Separate rooms?"

"You _are _jealous," he scoffed, "I got the attention of a woman in one night that you couldn't get in eight years. What does that _say _about you,Golden Child?"

"I just want answers, Snape."

"And I want privacy."

Harry lowered his head to inspect the nicks in the table, his fingers outlining each dent and curve.

"Be good to her," Harry said, without lifting his eyes from the table.

He stood, uncomfortable with where the conversation was going; Hermione gave him a questioning look.

"I'll just be in the study," he said, and with a quick glance at Harry added, "my pet."

Hermione blushed, but the real response he wanted came from Harry, who fumed red with hate.

That night, Hermione went to bed early, pulling his hand, directing him up the stairs. He obliged, only too eagerly, expecting more than should be expected, perhaps, but expecting it nonetheless. She disrobed, a ratty cloth she still found suitable to wear from her school days, but left the remaining clothes, the ones that mattered, on. He watched her as she stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes, not to sleep, but to ponder.

"What do you see in me?" she asked suddenly.

"Everything," he said after a slight pause.

She snorted, at which he raised his brows, and she sat up on the bed to give him room to sit. He saw in himself a need to be closer, to touch her cheek, her hair, her back, to hold her. She felt his kindness unearthed and she wrapped her arms around his waist, digging her nose into his robe.

"You're too old for me," she said.

"True," he agreed, "and you're much too decent for my blood."

"But you still want me?"

He kissed the top of that straggly hair and pushed her face away from his chest to kiss her forehead. She smiled, shrugged, and laid back on the bed. She spoke to him then with her emotions, with her eyes; she opened herself up and showed him betrayal and loss and forgiveness. He watched her weep, for she was overwhelmed by shame and confusion. He did not know how to calm a crying woman, for although tears were well versed in his mind, they were the tears of those he had abused, and not of those he had eased.

She continued to cry, pressing her hands against her eyes to hide the river of pain; all he could think to do was grab her and pull her in and hold her wrists down. He kissed the sides of her eyes and her lids, each wet drop of her panic, gripping her wrists tighter with each sob. He didn't know what he had started, but it was simple and effective and he couldn't find the drive in him to stop. She stiffened, frightened of his aggression, and tried to back away, but his strength was too much for her; and just as soon as it had started, it ended. He released her and let her scramble from the bed to the bathroom, trying to run, though too shaken to properly move.

He followed, finding her again before the mirror, eyes melted down her face, red and swollen, and she reached out to touch the mirror where her reflection stood.

"I don't blame you," she said. "Do you know what I see? I've been watching myself, only it isn't me in there, it's a demon."

She laughed. It unnerved him.

"You don't know the extent of being demonized," he began, but was cut off when she turned, looking straight into his eyes with a smirk.

"And I've gone cold... I'm sorry, Severus, but this…us…isn't right."

She wiped her tears on her sleeve and, grabbing her robe, left the room. He stood there, unaccepting of the position in which he stood: in love, but still alone. She couldn't be happy with him, as he assumed no one could be, and it wounded him deeply.

He stood looking at the mirror, at the face of an old man too stubborn to chase after her. He pulled his wand from out of his robes and ignited the tip. He observed the flame for a moment, becoming a part of the inconsistency that blazed its trail upon the wand. He was a man of constraint, not romantic or excessive in any fashion, but such austerity did little to comfort the pain he felt. There had to be some form of revenge for the throbbing ache in his heart. He lowered the fire onto the bed sheets, and stood, eyes closed, in the room that soon began to burn. The walls danced with light and the black of the paint shriveled to charcoal; he smelled the ash and the mania of the moment. It excited him and he smiled, an act he so rarely practiced, and let his feelings melt along with the house.

He could taste a parcel of madness slip into his mind, and it took the form of death. There were cloaked men gathered in a circle about his body, perhaps Death Eaters, but unlikely, as they were faceless and skinless, and he watched as though he was not there, even as his body lie in their midst. The cloaked men laughed and taunted and threw stones at his body as it wept and clinched the earth with long, bony fingers.

He saw the light of the fire behind his lids and his smile widened; it strengthened him, and he went to the circle of the cloaked men to pull his body away from their grip, but, instead, his body pulled back, dragging him down. The mud beneath him was black and it sucked him in, and as he looked through the hole in which he sank, he could see many other bodies rotten and screaming, and his smile faded and was replaced with fear.

_Take hold of my hand_, said a voice above him, and he looked, and it was Hermione. She stretched an arm out to him from a safe harbor among the cloaked men. He reached out to her and took her hand, but she turned pale as he did.

_I changed my mind_, she said, and she let go. He screamed, flailing his arms out to her, calling to her, but she was removed, her features faint and fading.

He blinked into reality then, into a burning room that threatened to overpower him. He heard the door and felt small hands grab his robe and try to pull him from the fire, but she was weak and unable to budge him from his stance. He heard her cry to him and he opened his eyes, seeing her as a dream, and he frowned, though tenderly, because she had let him fall.

She looked into his eyes and gripped his waist and held him, resolved to stay. They embraced, pulling into each other, feeling the flames surround them both.


End file.
